


Two Houses, Alike in Dipshittery

by Lepord257



Series: Two Houses [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Chorus Trilogy (Red vs. Blue), F/M, M/M, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, So many OCs, dumbass teens, fed ocs, ive got a lot of notes that may or may not make it in, not me, rebel ocs - Freeform, who knows - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-07-14 11:37:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16039712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lepord257/pseuds/Lepord257
Summary: After the radio tower, Tucker figured that was it for the whole “civil war” thing. Turns out, decades-long civil wars that cause the deaths of the majority of a planet’s population take a bit longer to get over than a few years yelling insults across an empty box canyon. Luckily, he and Donut have their time as diplomats to the Sangheili to fall back on. Enormous alien warriors are basically the same as teenagers, right?





	1. Starting off with a Bang

Laying eyes on the alien temple is underwhelming at best. After weeks of reconnaissance, skirmishes, and camping out in full armor with teenagers who kept putting rocks under each other's bedrolls, coming over the last hill to see the massive stone structure -- half-hidden in a valley and surrounded by trees almost as tall as the temple itself -- _should_ be a near religious experience.

Instead, Tucker is too busy comparing this mission with his last under the New Republic. _Focus. All the reports said Felix is on the other side of the planet right now. Nobody’s going to die this time._

Comms crackle to life, pulling him back to the present. " _Team Corda, in position. Ready to descend_.”  
  
“Copy, Corda. Any sign of pirates?”

“ _Saw some tire tracks earlier, but no people_.”

“Well, be careful. We don’t know if they beat us down here or not.” 

“ _Copy that. Good luck, Captain._ ” With that, the comm link goes dead, leaving Tucker alone with his building panic.

“Dibs on the sword.”

Correction: Building panic and a team that includes fucking Palomo.

“You can’t call dibs on the sword. We don’t know if there _is_ a sword.”  
  
“You don’t know there _isn’t_ a sword. Check and mate, Park. Check. And. Mate.”

Jesus Christ, it’s like idiots in stereo. “Shut the fuck up, both of you. Corporal Bakshi’s taking Team Corda around the front approach to see if we can draw out any pirates. That leaves us climbing down from here so we can sneak through the back entrance.” 

“Wait, wait, wait,” Quinones interrupts. Fucking hell, he finally understands why Church and Wash are so yelly all the time. “We’re climbing from _here?_ ” The private, who’s standing a good five feet away from the edge, is managing the incredible feat of looking green with nausea while in full body armor. Private Park pats him on the shoulder sympathetically.

“You’ll be fine, Kiwi. From this height, you won’t even feel the impact before it kills you.” Quinones lets out a muffled sob.

“Oh my God. Park, you are forbidden from speaking for the rest of the mission. Nobody’s gonna fall; there’s a path and everything. Let’s _go_.”

“Hold up.” God _damn it,_ Park. “Has anyone seen Burchfield?” Tucker considers holding back a groan. Then he groans anyway. He misses when it was just Palomo.

It takes fifteen minutes to get everyone on the path. Between Park’s terrible pep talks, Quinones’ refusal to get anywhere near the edge without someone holding his hand, Palomo’s... _Palomo_ -ness, and having to double back for Burchfield who had gotten so wrapped up in practicing his victory speech he didn’t notice they’d left, it’s a miracle they get down the cliff at all.

On the bright side, the terror and doubt Tucker had been wrestling with since the mission briefing in Armonia is gone.

Now it’s a migraine. 

If the temple is more impressive up close, Tucker doesn’t notice. Instead, he does one last headcount and activates his sword. Ancient runes etched into the walls glow in response, light racing through carvings and cracks until they form the outline of a surprisingly reasonably sized door. The team holds their breath as the stone shifts and slides into the outlines, allowing them entry.

Tucker waves Palomo and the privates through first before switching off the sword and following. The last thing they need is the place lighting up like a Christmas tree and drawing every pirate within a hundred miles. They’ll have to make do with headlamps and guns.

“ _This is Team Corda calling Team Aqua. Do you copy?_ ”

“I copy, Corda. What’s up?”

“ _Found the pirates._ ” Fuck. Or, not fuck. At least they know where they are now.

“How many?”

“ _Six or seven. It’s hard to tell. Nothing we can’t handle. Looks like they’re trying to get the front door open._ ” Tucker snorts at that. If his time in the desert taught him anything, it’s that these things were built to last. “ _There’s probably more around. Might be best to pick them off while they’re in a small group._ ”

“Need any help with that?”

“ _Negative, Captain. We’ve got this. You finish your sweep of the temple._ ”

“Alright. But stay on comms. We can be there in five minutes if shit goes bad.”

“ _Copy that._ ”

The private link goes dead and a few moments later there’s a blinking invite in the corner of his HUD to a shared Corda/Aqua channel. He accepts and watches as other names filter in one by one. Bakshi, Greaves, Miram, Samaha first. Then Palomo, Park, Burchfield, and Quinones, all muted by default. Tucker turns down the volume on the new channel and switches back to Aqua’s.

“First priority is killing pirates. Cool alien shit comes later.” Audible groans from everyone but Quinones. “Keep an eye on the shared channel, but don’t clog it up.”

Tucker’s met with a chorus of reluctant “yes sirs,” which he figures is good enough. After the weeks in the field, he’s ready to consider anything short of attempted sabotage an achievement unto itself as far as teamwork is concerned. God, he misses Armonia.

The quiet comm chatter mixed with distant gunfire and their own, heavy footsteps makes an eerie backdrop for their temple sweep. The hallways are long and winding, breaking into branches and twisting in ways that would leave them hopelessly lost without their suits’ gps. High ceilings lost in shadow do nothing to alleviate the claustrophobia, and neither do the highly stylized murals depicting aerial views of the planet. Quinones turns his light on one at random, lagging behind the group to examine it closer.

“I think they’re maps.”

“I’m sure Grey will be thrilled,” Tucker deadpans. “Keep up or I’m leaving you here.”

Quinones trips over himself to rejoin the group, narrowly avoiding plowing into Park. “Sorry,” he mutters. Tucker shushes him.

“So-”

“No, for real. Do you hear that?”

Mercifully, he actually shuts up at that. Tucker stands stock still, listening intently. Maybe it was nothing. Quinones’ scramble to catch up, or white noise from the comms. The comms! Chatter and gunfire abruptly cut out as he mutes the shared channel. For a moment, the only sound is his own breathing.

There! Down the hall, just around the bend, there are two sets of footsteps. Looks like they aren’t alone after all. He switches back to the shared channel and unmutes himself. “Baksh- I mean, Team Corda.”

A beat of silence and then, “ _I read you, Captain._ ”

“There’s already pirates in the temple. The ones out front are a distraction.”

Corporal Bakshi’s name goes dark. Tucker would bet money he muted himself to swear. Dude’s a fucking professional. When he speaks again, his voice is steady, if strained.

“ _Should we withdraw?_ ”

And there’s the million dollar question. Distraction or no, Bakshi’s team can probably handle the pirates up front. Unless it’s a setup to ambush them. And there can’t be that many pirates in the group he heard with how narrow the hallways are. Unless there’s multiple groups he hasn’t heard. The pirates could be using the same divide and conquer technique they are, in which case this is all of them and they can take them no problem. Unless they aren’t, in which case they’re boned. Why can’t choices be easy?

Fuck, the footsteps are almost on them.

“No.” Wait.

“ _No?_ ” Bakshi thinks it’s dumb too, oh no.

“No, negative, some other third word for no.” What are the words coming out of his mouth? How can he make them stop? “We’re already here; we can take them in small groups.” Oh my God, they’re all gonna die.

“ _Alright. But be careful, Captain. We can’t get to you quickly if things go bad._ ”  
  
“Fucking noted. Over and out.” He mutes Bakshi, switching back to Aqua’s channel. “Everybody, back the fuck up to the crossroads back there. _Quietly.”_

For once in their short, miserable lives, the kids actually follow directions. Within seconds, Palomo and Burchfield are crouched just out of sight in the southbound hallway, Park and Quinones across from them. Tucker stands, gun drawn, in the center of the cross-section trying to look like he isn’t ready to book it back down the hall at the first sign of trouble. If Quinones would let go of Park’s hand, they’d look like an actual squad of soldiers.

The moment the pirates turn the corner, he fires and is running before his target hits the ground. Stone shards explode in his face where bullets hit the walls in front of him. He swears, whirling around to bring his gun back up and-

_Bang! Bang! B-bang!_

The shots are so close together that they layer on top of each other. Armor clatters as it hits the ground. Tucker squint into the near-darkness, looking for familiar shapes and colors, but unwilling to move closer to see for sure.

“Hooooly fuck guys, we actually did it.” Palomo made it at least. Yay?

“Palomo, what the fuck!” Park yells. “You almost shot Quinones!”  
  
“I’m fi-”  
  
“It’s Burchfield’s fault!”

“Really, it’s noth-”  
  
“How is it _my_ fault?”

“Oh my God, only you assholes could make killing pirates lame,” Tucker cuts in.

“We still killed pirates,” Palomo whines.

“I’m very proud of you. Gold star,” Tucker deadpans, and moves to push past them, further into the temple. Park and Burchfield exchange a fistbump he pretends not to see as he unmutes his radio to report in to Bakshi.

Team Corda is not doing _nearly_ as well as Team Aqua. Aside from being outnumbered, they’re outgunned. Like, 3 warthogs and siege equipment outgunned. Team Corda has trees and bright white armor that doesn’t blend in well with trees. If Tucker doesn’t activate the temple soon, they’re going to have to pull out. Bow chicka wow wow.

But seriously, he’d rather babysit Caboose for a month than pull out. He spent nearly three weeks, _three weeks,_ on the backpacking trip from _hell_ with seven teenagers, half of whom hate the other half and all of whom have guns, with Corporal Bakshi the only adult there to help him keep those guns pointed at the _pirates who are actively trying to kill them_ instead of _their own teammates, oh my GOD._ Like hell is he going to let this be a waste of time. He needs this, damn it!

He doesn't take off running down the hallway, but it's a near thing. 

Twelve minutes later, he's decided that if his team doesn't stop giggling about power walking in power armor, he’s gonna save their fed partners the trouble of murdering them. Yes Palomo, they _do_ both have the word “power” in the name. Power walking _is_ a thing grandmas do, Palomo. Would you look at that; there’s a branch in the hallway. Let’s focus on that instead of _anything else about power walking Jesus fucking Christ, Palomo._  

Actually, it does look important. Up until this point, they must have been exploring maintenance routes or something because the hallway they’re in right now is clearly an offshoot of this new one. For one thing, it’s massive. You could drive a tank through it and still have enough room for a mongoose or two to do some sweet tricks alongside. For another, it’s beautiful. The murals from before had nothing on these. The entire corridor is carved and painted into one seamless piece, with complex geometric patterns, landscapes, storms, and sunshine guiding any visitor down the hall - presumably from the main entrance to the center chamber.

“Holy shit.” Palomo said something Tucker didn’t want to punch him for. The world really is ending.

“Team Corda, this is Team Aqua. You dead yet, or what?”

An explosion rattles the corridor and then Tucker’s eardrums as it’s broadcast again through the radio. “ _Not yet, captain. Are you?_ ”

“We found the main corridor. We can activate the temple and meet you out front in like, five minutes.”

“ _That’s great,_ ” Bakshi says, relief clear in his voice. “ _We’ll be able to hold until then unless-_ ”

The temple shakes again and the radio bursts into an inescapable wall of noise as the echoes of the explosion feed back into each other in his ears. Tucker mutes his radio, ears ringing. Behind him, Burchfield rips off his helmet and drops it with a _clack_. Small, tinny voices and gunfire still broadcasting from the abandoned helmet seem louder in the near silence of the hall. No one moves.

“ _-maha._ ” Static. “ _-repeat. This is pr- -ite Samaha. I need- -ackup- -hurt real bad._ ”  
  
Bakshi’s words are clearer. “ _Copy that, Samaha. What’s your location?_ ”

A different voice answers. Tucker recognizes it as Private Greaves. She’d stolen all but one pair of Burchfield’s socks just after leaving Armonia. “ _I see him, Corporal. He’s behind the warthog that got caught in the blast. I’m a few yards away; I can get him._ ”

“ _Negative, private. You don’t have any cover. Give Miram covering fire; he can- GREAVES!_ ”

“BURCHFIELD!” Tucker screeches, as the kid sprints down the hall towards the exit.

Park lunges for him, fingers closing around empty air. “Fuck! Russel, no!” he shouts, and takes off after him.

“GET THE FUCK BACK HERE!” Yeah no, they’re gone. Tucker glances back towards the center chamber. So. Fucking. Close. “YOU’RE GOING TO RUN SO MANY LAPS YOU’LL HAVE TO SLEEP ON THE TRACK, I SWEAR TO GOD!” he yells, running after them.

Apparently the main entrance doesn’t need anything fancy to activate it, because the thirty foot doors are sliding open while he’s still a good fifteen feet away. “I’m going to kill them. I’m actually going to kill them. I’m going to kill the pirates and then I’m gonna kill these kids and it will be their own fucking fault.” Tucker reaches the doorway just in time to watch Park scramble backwards back into the temple, clutching at his arm.

“Park.”

“Yes sir?” he asks, cradling his arm to his chest. Tucker can see red against the tan armor planting.

“You’re dead.”

“Yes sir.”

Outside the temple, the clearing is a mess of warthogs, corpses, and big supply crates. Directly in front of the temple doors sits one of the same laser cannons the fake C.T. used on the temple in the desert years ago. Judging by the lack of rubble, it’s as effective now as it was then. That and the fact that the metal casing is ripped open along the left side, probably from the same explosion Samaha was caught in.

Burchfield’s halfway between the temple door and an overturned warthog when the rest of the squad reach the doors. Tucker’s vaguely aware of Quinones administering biofoam to Park’s arm. “Palomo, you and Park go back through the temple and around the side to where we left the warthogs. I’m sending you the nav point. Quinones, lay down covering fire. I’m grabbing the idiot.”

 _Bang!_ A voice cracking in a high pitched scream. A pirate lowering their gun, ready to step back behind the busted cannon. Tucker’s on them, sword out before he even knows he’s moving. They don’t get a chance to scream as the plasma blade tears through the patchwork armor from shoulder to hip. Then he’s running again, sliding on his knees to where Burchfield’s struggling to his feet.

“Sit the fuck down, private.” Burchfield stills, and Tucker takes the opportunity to survey the situation. Ten feet in front of them are Greaves and Samaha, pinned by another pirate partially obscured by heavy shipping crates angled to be _just_ out of Quinones’ range. Tucker ducks as one of those shots goes wide. “ _Quin-”_

_“Sorry, sir!”_

Luckily for Quinones, he’s spared his captain’s wrath as something more pressing grabs the attention of everyone on the battlefield. Polka music, faint at first then louder accompanied by the roar of engines. Two warthogs burst through the treeline in a blaze of idiotic glory Tucker’d thought exclusive to the Reds.

Park’s warthog peels away, disappearing behind the back end of the laser cannon, although the whooping and explosions give him a pretty good idea of what the kid’s doing. Palomo screeches to a halt inches away from Burchfield’s prone form. “You called?” he calls down, grin obvious despite the helmet.

Tucker wastes no time heaving Burchfield into the warthog, which is good because Palomo hits the gas the moment he’s swung himself into the gunner position. Tucker unmutes the shared channel with one hand, swinging the machine gun around with the other.

“This is Captain Tucker, everybody get the fuck out of here!” Redundant order at this point, but whatever. Palomo stops in front of the busted warthog long enough for Greaves to help Samaha in and not a second longer. Greaves is forced to take a running leap onto the back and honestly, Tucker can’t find it in himself to care.

They hit the treeline, and Bakshi’s voice comes over the radio. “ _Roll call. Everybody sound off._ ” One by one, everyone calls in. Everyone’s accounted for. Only minor injuries except for Samaha, Burchfield, and maybe Park depending on how his arm looks by the time they get back to camp. Burchfield’s even well enough to look sheepish. Good. That means they’re well enough to stew in how much _trouble they’re in._


	2. In Fair Armonia We Set Our Scene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Teams Corda and Aqua return to Armonia. Tucker reconnects with a friend. Greaves makes a poor decision.

There’s a lot of things Tucker _could_ do after getting back to Armonia. Like debriefing. Or making sure his injured soldiers make it to the hospital. Or, at the very least, putting his armor away. Instead, he spends the first ten hours passed the fuck out in an actual bed with actual blankets in an actual building with actual walls and actual air conditioning. Whatever. He’s willing to bet cash money Bakshi is doing the exact same thing. Dude spent the last leg of the journey alternating between falling asleep in his helmet and telling Greaves how disappointed he was. There’s no way he made it any further than the nearest cot.

Ten hours, a shower, and two servings of military rations he’s almost willing to count as actual food since they were heated up on a stove instead of a campfire later, Tucker feels human enough to dread the impending debrief. He is not and will never be in the mood to talk through all the bullshit that happened during the mission. No, what Tucker wants to do is _bitch about_ all the bullshit that happened during the mission. There’s a difference, okay?

Pushing aside his tray, Tucker puts his helmet back on and flips through his HUD’s contact list to find the right bitching partner. Wash? Absolutely not. The last thing he needs is some holier-than-thou deadpan, “Wow Tucker, privates who won’t listen to basic instructions and fuck up everything specifically to annoy you? Sounds _terrible.”_ Yeah, no. Grif? Maybe. But he’s probably with Simmons, and Tucker’s not in the mood for awkward third-wheeling. Church? Hmm. He _is_ always good for bitching. But it’s been awkward between them ever since he started riding with Carolina on her kill-the-Director quest.

He stops over Donut’s highlighted name. He doesn’t actually know what Donut’s up to. Between the Freelancer bullshit and everything with Chorus, Tucker hasn’t had a chance to just chill with him since -- Jesus, since Sandtrap probably. He’d probably be up for gratuitous bitching about dumb military bullshit. Maybe he could even convince him the manicures weren’t necessary this time.

_Tkr: hey dude where u @_

_Tkr: i have some SHIT to tell u_

He’s considering going for thirds when Donut finally replies.

_Dnt: 3646 west ionias st rm 3257_

Cryptic, but workable. Tucker stands up to throw away his tray.

_Dnt: come alone_

What the fuck.

3646 West Ionias Street turns out to be an abandoned office building within sprinting distance of everything important except the motorpool and city walls. It’s enormous and empty and the elevators are broken. That last one is especially annoying because room 3257 is on the third floor. Like, he’s a kickass space marine, he can walk up three flights of stairs, but _also-_

The room itself is an office space that’s been completely gutted and replaced with a mess of monitors, tv screens, and movable whiteboards. A handful of fed soldiers mill about taking notes on a massive spreadsheet color coded with various shades of pink projected on a beat up SMARTBoard, and refreshing various Basebook feeds under the monochrome light from dubiously-obtained security feeds. One pink-striped soldier looks up from where she’s holding court at the lone desk left in the center of the room, but is quickly distracted by another soldier coming out of the break room frowning at a datapad.

“Got a memo from Stopwatch saying we need to fill Volleyball’s footlocker with her garbage tea and to keep her away from coffee at all costs,” the soldier says, setting a mug and the datapad down on the center desk. “But I think that’s a personal vendetta, so I’m gonna file it under ‘shit we put up with because she can scale a wet wall under a floodlight in under five seconds without being seen’ and forget about it.”

Pink-stripe nods absently, still staring at Tucker. Tucker resists the urge to double check that he has the right address. “Sir?” she calls over her shoulder. “You have a visitor.”

A door in the corner slams open. It bounces off the back wall and then off Donut’s pink armor as the man leans through the doorway. Literally leans, he’s hanging off the door jamb with one hand the other on his hip. “Heeyyyy Tucker!” Donut pushes off the doorway and saunters into the room, arms open like he’s expecting a hug. Or a supervillain about to launch into an evil monologue. It’s Donut. It could go either way.

“Welcome,” He says, and pauses a beat. “To my lair!”

Tucker waits a minute to see if he’s going to elaborate. He doesn’t. “Okay,” he says. “What the fuck?”

Pink-stripe sighs, setting down her helmet and reaching for her mug. “What Officer-”

Donut’s visor whips around to do a valiant impression of glaring daggers at the back of her head. She’s angled away from him, but apparently has eyes in the back of her head, because she corrects herself.

“What Agent Double-oh-Donut means, is this is the headquarters of the United Armies of Chorus’ first official intelligence agency.”

Tucker finds himself nodding at her explanation before realizing it’s nonsense. “Wait wait wait. Donut, why are you in a spy office? Chorus doesn’t even have a spy office!”

Pink-stripe lifts her mug out of the way of Donut launching himself over her desk to sit on top, legs crossed at the knees. “Chorus _didn’t_ have a spy office. But now that there’s two armies in one city and all this-” Pink-stripe ducks under an arm flourish, “-diplomacy stuff, Doyle thought it was best to have a team dedicated to...keeping the peace.”

Great. His migraine is back. He’s never making fun of Wash again. “So you’re spying on the rebels.”

“And the feds,” Pink-stripe says, setting her mug back down on the other end of the desk. “And the pirates, when we can manage it.” She runs a hand through her hair in an attempt to get her undercut from ‘helmet hair’ messy to ‘cool and casual’ messy. It sort of works? Tucker’s too busy trying to figure out why she looks familiar to really notice.

“It’s like Mean Girls, but everyone has guns,” Donut says, entirely too enthusiastic.

Pink-stripe nods. “That’s why we’re here: to make sure all the drama gets taken care of before it affects missions. Or the ceasefire.”

“And I’m in charge because I’m not afraid of getting down and dirty deep in everyone’s business!” Donut chirps. Only Tucker grimaces. He gets the distinct impression the feds are laughing at him. “I even got to handpick my crew! Like Desi here.” Pink-stripe- Desi(?) suffers his one-armed hug with grace and dignity.

“Codenames, sir.”

“That’s why they’re all feds,” Donut says, completely ignoring her. “Kimball wasn’t, well, _psyched,_ but _everybody knows_ rebels are terrible at subtlety.”

Well, that was some obviously biased bullshit. “Great job on that by the way. Didn’t have _any_ problems with that mixed mission yesterday.”

Desi swivels around in her chair and clicks through a few Basebook feeds on one of the hanging monitors. Looks like it’s Burchfield’s page. Half of the messages are some variation of ‘Get Well Soon’. The others...are not. “Believe it or not, Team Aqua and Team Corda were supposed to have the highest compatibility out of any team pairing in the army. I’ll need to see the debrief notes to know exactly what went wrong, but…” She trails off and frowns at Tucker. “Shouldn’t you be doing that, like, now, by the way? I know Kimball was interested in how Greaves running into fire resulted in Burchfield getting shot and not Greaves.”

Suddenly, Tucker is acutely aware that he’s surrounded by spies. Time to change the subject. Uuuuuuh, “Oh look at that, a map of the city. With everyone labeled. What a natural subject change.” Wait. “Hold the fuck up, how do you have that?”

Donut’s response is worryingly nonchalant. “Tracking systems in the armor.”

Tucker waits for him to explain. He doesn’t. This is beginning to become a pattern. “Why. Are there tracking systems. In the armor.”

Desi clicks something that blows the Armonia map up onto a cluster of monitors mounted on the wall behind her. “Everyone knows there’s tracking in the armor. Otherwise, you wouldn’t show up on mini-maps or be able to ping your location, or have any GPS functionality.” She glances back at Tucker and must see something in his body language because she continues a bit defensively. “It’s not actually mandatory to wear armor off-duty.”

Somehow, that doesn’t make it any less creepy.

“Somehow, that doesn’t-” A pair of familiar names on the map catches his eye. “What are Miram and Greaves doing alone in the rebel dorms?”

The soldier who brought Desi the mug whips around to stare at the monitors, smacking a whiteboard and sending it careening into another soldier in the process who shrieks something about corncobs.

“Miram and who are alone in the dorms?”

Desi rolls her eyes. “You aren’t allowed to be jealous if you never made a move. Also, gross.”

Tucker isn’t listening, too busy trying to connect the map to his own knowledge of the dorm layout. Why would they- The map updates, and Tucker realizes where they’re heading.

“I HAVE TO GO,” he says, calmly and professionally, and sprints out the door.

\--

“I would just like to point out that nobody’s seen us yet.” Maybe, Greaves thought, if she ignored him he’d stop talking. “We could totally turn back. At any time, even.” Greaves also ignores the glance he risks. She’s on a roll ignoring him today. “Like now for example.”

Miram reaches for her shoulder and oops there goes all her silent treatment progress as she flinches away. “The difference between obscurity and greatness is the dedication required to see things through to completion.”

Greaves doesn’t need to look at Miram to know that he’s radiating how Unimpressed he is. “Is that a quote, or are you naturally this batshit?”

Clearly, not looking at him wasn’t doing enough to put him off. She raises her chin so she can talk down at him instead. Well, figuratively talk down. He’s still a good six inches taller than her. “Ambition is not insanity, Miram.”

“Fucking- Look. Tree Boy fucked up. You’re mad, I get that. But don’t you think this is a little-”

“A little what, Simon?”

Miram winces. “Overboard?”

Greaves is whirling in front of him before she knows she’s moving. _“I had him,”_ she snarls. “If Burchfield hadn’t barged in where he wasn’t wanted, I’d be receiving a _medal,_ not _counting ammo._ I got bailed out by _rebels_ and we _failed our mission._ So no. I _don’t_ think this is ‘a little overboard’.”

Miram raises his hands in a placating gesture. “He’s in the hospital, Z,” he says, softly. “I don’t know how much more of a lesson he needs.”

Everything in Miram’s body language is bent towards non-judgemental understanding and she _hates it._ She seethes, glaring up and up and up at his infuriatingly blank visor. Not that his face is showing any more expression at the moment. She’s played enough card games with the bastard to have an in-depth familiarity with his unbreakable poker face. And he’s played enough with her to know the exact measurement for how high her left eyebrow goes with every twitch. How much pressure she’s using to grind her teeth together. That, if it weren’t for the gloves, her fingernails would be leaving bloody crescents in her palms.

She turns on her heel, and stomps the rest of the way to Burchfield’s room. She doesn’t bother to check if he’s following. She knows he is.

“Pick the lock.”

“Why would you assume I know how to pick locks?” He does a good impression of indignant. Unfortunately for him, she’s _actually_ heard him indignant. Also, he can pick locks.

“You’re a Miram.”

“Fair enough.”

He kneels in front of the door as he fishes his lockpick set out of a hidden compartment in his armor. Mirams, honestly. Just put it in your pocket.

“So,” he says, casually enough that it grates. “Is there a reason you’re targeting Tree Boy and not Palomo? Since he’s the one who actually bailed you out? And isn’t in the hospital for a bullet wound?”

The lock clicks. Greaves shoulders him out of the way. “Go keep watch.”

Miram takes it for the dismissal it is and slinks down the hall. Greaves waits a second or two after the footsteps fade to take her own supplies out of her _actual pocket_ and kneel in front of the door. She fumbles for a moment with the cap. It’s small enough that the gloves make it hard to get a grip, but on the other hand, she’s not anxious to test her unarmoured strength against an old tube of superglue.

Eventually, the top comes off and rolls _somewhere,_ leaving her to her business. She’d been worried when she’d got it that there wouldn’t be enough superglue in the tiny tube, but her fears were unfounded. She coats the locking mechanism and closes the door firmly without any trouble. There’s footsteps behind her as she pockets the glue.

“I told you to keep watch.”

“Yeah, he did a great job with that.”

Greaves freezes. That wasn’t Miram. Slowly, Greaves turns around and her heart sinks.

“Fuck.”

“P much, yeah,” says Captain Tucker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a few weeks later than I'd wanted it to be, but there's nothing like being run over to re-arrange your schedule.
> 
> I was debating for a while about whether or not to have oc povs or to just let Tucker and Donut stumble across all the teenage bullshit as it blows up in everyone's faces, but then I remembered I'm a slut for dramatic irony. Listen, ya'll clicked on a fic tagged "so many ocs" you knew what was up.


	3. Consequences (Kind Of)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tucker makes a miscalculation. Burchfield makes his case.

The streets aren’t as empty as the Corda soldiers would probably like them to be. There’s only a handful of rebels standing around when Tucker leads them out the front doors of the dorms, but unless they’re unbelievably stupid, they’d been banking on going unseen.

 _Dnt: what happened?_ _  
_ _Dnt: security cameras dont have audio  
_ _Dnt: also where are you going_

Tucker is surprised to see Greaves looking like she’s about to deck Miram rather than Tucker when he glances at them. Or maybe he’s not that surprised. The kid _had_ pointed in her direction the second he came into view. That makes him either a backstabbing bitch or a worse lookout than Caboose.

_Tkr: wheres bakshi_

_Dnt: the mess  
_ _Dnt: but i reeeeaaally dont think thats a good idea_

_Tkr: weve got a system its fine  
_ _Tkr: i yell at the rebels when they pull shit and he yells at the feds when they pull shit_

A group of rebels starts _oooooh-_ ing like it’s middle school and someone’s been called down to the principal's office. “Someone’s in _troooouuubleeee,”_ someone calls after them. Greaves flinches twice -- once at the rebels and once when Miram puts a hand on her shoulder.

_Dnt: im telling you this as a friend and also as the person whos going to have to clean this sticky mess up  
_ _Dnt: this is not going to go the way you think it will_

The streets get more crowded the closer they get to the First Armonia Mall. The mall’s been serving as a combination hang out, not-at-all-secret black market, and mess hall. Weird as it is seeing Panda Express serving space potatoes and canned peas, the food court is one of the few places where you can serve an entire battalion at once.

Corporal Bakshi is teetering over a half-eaten plate of eggs, nursing what can’t be his first cup of coffee at one of the tables marking the transition from food court to shopping center. “Hey, Bakshi!” Bakshi jolts, sending his coffee skittering across the table.

“Tucker.” He yawns, taking in the privates attempting to melt into their armor. “What can I do for you?”

Tucker folds his arms over his chest and smirks back at the privates. “You won’t _believe_ what I caught these two doing in the rebel dorms.”

Bakshi tries to hide his searching for his coffee with a fake yawn that quickly turns into a real one. “What did you catch them doing in the rebel dorms?” he asks, dutifully.

“They were-” Fuck. He didn’t see. He got there after they finished; that must be why Miram pointed him down the hall without a word. _He doesn’t know what they did._ “Greaves, you tell him what you were doing.”

Greaves stands stock still for a half second then looks between the three of them. Tucker first, then Bakshi, then Miram who tilts his helmet slightly. She looks Tucker straight in the visor, fingers digging into her palms. “We weren’t doing anything, sir.”

 _No!_ “Then what the fuck were you doing in front of Burchfield’s door?!”

“Bringing him flowers,” she deadpans and fuck if he can’t feel her smirking at him under her helmet.

“Right.” Bakshi downs the rest of his coffee and stares into the mug mournfully. “Miram, Greaves, don't-” he sighs and eyes the massive coffee urn by the tray return. “Don’t wander around the rebel dorms.” Tucker watches, gobsmacked, as he stands up, walks between the privates, and makes a beeline for the coffee.

“Holy shit,” Greaves breathes.

“But- oh, fuckberries.”

It’s Tucker’s turn to jump as Miram pats him on the arm. “Good seeing you, Captian. Greaves.” And he strolls towards the Panda Express, Greaves trailing after him.

_Dnt: so howd it go_

_Tkr: fuck u_

\--

Four days after teams Corda and Aqua return to Armonia, Park visits Burchfield in the hospital. He’d have gone earlier, but, well. He’s got good reasons, okay? _Someone_ had to keep Quinones from hyperventilating in a corner, and it certainly wasn’t going to be Palomo. And it’s not like Burchfield was lucid enough to appreciate it while he was high off his ass on painkillers. Simple practicality kept him three blocks from the building at all times and nothing else.

Practicality was also the reason Park shed his armor and slipped into the hospital room as quietly as humanly possible while moving half a shade slower than a dead sprint.

“Is that an attempt at sneaking, or-?”

“Shut up.” Burchfield in the hospital bed looked smaller than Park had ever seen him. Everyone looked smaller without the bulk of their armor, but wrapped in bandages and dwarfed by beeping machines doing the work of his organs was not a good look for him. “Who’s the doctor treating you?” Park asked, eyes drawn against his will to the door.

Burchfield huffs. “Not the one who actually likes you and is personally invested in your wellbeing, you weirdo.”

Tension drains out of Park’s body and he slumps against the door. Awkward conversation postponed yet again. He only has to keep this up for the rest of his natural life and he’ll be home free.

“Dude, come here.” He does his best not to drag his feet when he goes to sit on the edge of Burchfield’s bed, but he’s not sure he succeeds. Maybe he does. Burchfield doesn’t roll his eyes at least. “So what happened while I was out? Am I getting a medal? Promotion?”

“The entire team is on janitor duty until we die, actually. So thanks a lot, asshole.”

No invalid should ever look this smug. _“Someone_ had to bail out those feds.” No invalid should ever look this punchable either, but here they are. “Not that I care or anything, but do you know what happened to Greaves after?”

And there’s the squirming in his gut, back for round two. Could he get away with saying he doesn’t know? It’s not really a lie; he hasn’t seen her and rumors are conflicting. Mostly. Okay, so everyone knows she got off scot-free for _something_ or maybe was falsely accused? Doesn’t matter. Burchfield would do something dumb about it and the last dumb thing he did landed him in the hospital.

“Park.”

Maybe if he doesn’t say anything it’ll blow over before he’s out of the hospital and they can never speak of it again. Park has an _excellent_ track record for avoiding conversations; it could work.

“Park.”

Or it won’t blow over and Burchfield will hear about it from Alyvia or something. Fuck, anyone but Alyvia.

“Park!”

“Huh?”

“Spill.”

Damnit. “Greaves and Miram did something and Corporal Bakshi didn’t do anything about it.” It occurs to Park he could have lied and said nothing happened. Double Damnit.

Burchfield looks contemplative. Triple damnit. Nothing good ever comes from a contemplative Burchfield. Or an impulsive Burchfield. Why are they friends? “You know what we’ve gotta do, right Park?”

“No.”

“Then I’ll tell you.”

“That’s not what I-”

“Yong-gi?”

For a split second, Park is sure Burchfield lied and his attending doctor really is the one he’s been avoiding for the past six months. But the voice is too high and the armor is wrong and she sounds more disbelieving than angry.

Burchfield sounds disbelieving too, but for a different reason. “You know Dr. Grey? Dude, what is with you and scary doctors?”

Good question. How does a fed doctor know his- oh. The summer of seventh grade. His mom received a research grant and so they’d spent it at a research outpost with a handful of other xenobiologists. Dr. Grey let him hold a bioluminescent tree frog and only told him it was poisonous when he’d tried to lick it.

“I thought you were a xenobiologist,” he says weakly, as she skips over to the boys.

“I am! And a physicist, chemist, linguist, archeologist, and, most currently relevant, a surgeon! Squeeze my hand for me, dearie.” Burchfield obliged with the air of a man three days past fed up with vitals checks. “What’s Dr. Park up to these days? Probably armory or kitchen duty, right? I can’t imagine her temperament would lend itself to the field, and I know she hasn’t been around the hospital.”

Burchfield and Park lock eyes. Burchfield looks as pained as Park feels, though that may be because Grey is poking at his bullet wound. But then she moves to taking his blood pressure and he just looks sympathetic.

  
“Um, Dr. Grey?”

“115 over 70. Go ahead, sweetheart.”

“Mom’s-” Park picks at his bandages. He should probably have someone other than Nurse Markus look at his arm while he’s here.  “She’s dead.”

Grey misses her ears with the stethoscope, earpieces grazing her neck. She recovers quickly, but her tone’s lost all chipperness. “I see.”

Dr. Grey finishes checking Burchfield’s vitals in awkward silence. No one makes eye contact with anyone; no one moves to say a word. Burchfield’s fingers brush Park’s and he grabs his hand tight enough that he’s half worried about circulation.

Grey stops by Park as the rounds the bed to leave. “I’m sorry for your loss, Yong-gi.”

“I- thanks, Dr. Grey. You too.”

Burchfield squeezes Park’s hand, then lets go. “I know how to get back at Greaves.”

Letting go was a good move, because if Park still had a hold of his hand he’d take the damn thing off. “It was your fault in the first place!”

“So? She’s a fed, Park! You know, the ones who burned your town down? Who set up that ambush-”

“Don’t you dare use my moms to sell me on a fucking prank!”

“It’s not about the prank!” Burchfield props himself up on his elbows and Park reaches to push him back down on instinct. “It’s about revenge!”

“Sit down!”

Burchfield pushes Park away, leaning forward best he can. “For every bombed city, every rigged election, every time we have to sit next to them at dinner and pretend they didn’t put itching powder in your underwear ‘cause killing us wasn’t good enough for them.”

There are a thousand reasons why that’s bullshit. Why it’s smarter to let it go until the mercs are dealt with and the planet’s not on lockdown. Park can’t think of any of them.

“You’ve been talking to Santos again.”

Burchfield shrugs. “Doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

“Dammit, Russel!”

“So here’s what I need you to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technically, it would be a nurse doing vitals checks not Grey, but wanted to make Park suffer. Also Grey does what she wants. Also also, do visit your friends while they're delirious on pain meds. I can confirm, they will appreciate it, even if they don't remember details later.
> 
> Also also also, a big thank you to my beta, [Pool Guy](http://pool--guy.tumblr.com/)! You're the best, dude


	4. An Exemplary Exchange, or, Bang!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Park makes several decisions, all of them bad. Tucker deals with Teens.

Donut’s lair at two am is livelier than it has any right to be. The girls from Tucker’s first visit have been in and out all night, and the computer nerd is mid-match on some kind of battle royale game on the main monitor. Donut’s perched on Desi’s desk and Tucker’s stolen her surprisingly comfortable rolly chair, watching the kid charge straight off a cliff.

Tucker groans. Donut cheers. “Bullshit!” Tucker gripes. “What the hell, Hot Stuff? What kind of computer geek are you?”

Hot Stuff sinks down in his chair as the respawn timer ticks down. “Systems literacy is a different skill set than FPSes, sir,” he mumbles.

“Donut, your team is bullshit!” Donut slides his empty coffee mug over to Tucker, who glares at it like he’s been offered a dead fish. “I hate you and your whole squad.”

“Fair’s fair, Tucker!” Donut crows. “And we  _ do _ have a better track record for dealing with inter-army drama than a certain someone here.”

Hot Stuff snorts, adding insult to injury. Tucker snatches up the mugs and stomps into the kitchenette. “Dude, I’ve been hanging out here since I got back, and all you’ve done is fuck with Wash’s training schedules and send the girls to stall people in hallways.”

“You just don’t understand  _ subtlety.” _

Looks like someone restocked with the  _ good stuff. _ Must have cost them a fortune in wall duty hours. “You wouldn't know subtlety if it was painted neon pink, covered in glitter, and doing a kick line with indirect and unobtrusive.”

“Well, you wouldn’t know subtlety if it dressed up in lingerie and gave you a lap dance.”

Desi and the girl Tucker now knows as Corn Cob trail in as Tucker sets the refilled coffee mugs on the desk. Corn Cob heads straight for the SMARTBoard to update whatever spreadsheet shaped headache is projected there tonight. This morning? Whatever.

Desi brushes past her desk on the way to the kitchenette, leaving her chair wide open for Tucker to re-steal. He does so without remorse. Perks of being Captain.

“Agent Double-oh-Donut?” Corn Cob says from the board. “I got a message from Stopwatch. She just passed Private Park on her way to the rebel dorms. Say’s he’s en route to the armory.”

_ Farewell, Desi’s chair, _ Tucker thinks, standing up. _ It was nice while it lasted. _

Donut, meanwhile, settles into what Tucker’s come to recognize as his ‘conspiring pose’. His legs are crossed and he leans forward, elbows on his knees and fingers steepled. “Desi, make a note for someone to pay Private Vargas a visit.”

Desi emerges from the kitchenette with her own mug cupped in her hands. “It’s already on the agenda, sir.”

Tucker’s halfway to the door when Donut calls after him. “Do you honestly expect that barging in and yelling will go any better than the last time?”

“Yes, I do! Because this time, I’m not leaving it to Bakshi!”

“But you still don’t know what he’s doing! This requires  _ delicacy.” _

It would be so much easier to argue if Donut weren’t 100% right. Tucker stomps back to Desi’s still-abandoned chair and crosses his arms. Donut takes this as his cue to resume conspiring.

“Who’s he likely to stop for?”

Corn Cob pulls up something on a datapad and checks it against the SMARTBoard. “Private Quinones-”

“Asleep,” says Desi, reading off another datapad from the kitchenette doorway.

“Doctor Duke-”

“At home.” Her eyebrows shoot up as she keeps reading. “With  _ Corporal Dosela. _ Someone make a note of that.”

“Got it. Uh, Lieutenant Palomo.”

“Drinking with the other Lieutenants.”

Tucker stands up so fast the chair goes flying backward. “He’s  _ what?” _

Desi goes to push the chair back in, not bothering to look up from her datapad.

“There’s Carolina,” Corn Cob suggests. “But we don’t have tracking on her armor.”

“She said something about doing some extra training at dinner,” Tucker says, sitting back down. “If she’s anything like Wash, she’s still at it.”

Donut nods to Hot Stuff, who pulls up a command prompt on his computer. Desi hums and sips her coffee. “It looks like there was some Freelancer tech recovered in the last base raid,” she says. “Nothing important, but it’s still Freelancer.”

Donut tilts his head and hums. “Tell her the armory wants her to take a look at it.”

“At her convenience,” Desi adds. Donut nods his approval while Hot Stuff puts the message together.

“And now we wait,” he says with due ceremony.

Tucker rolls his eyes. “This is still bullshit.”

“Patience is a virtue!”

He isn’t exaggerating about patience. Five minutes in and Tucker is positive the clock on Desi’s desktop is broken. He puts his helmet on briefly to check it against his HUD, but no, it’s only been five minutes and twenty-three seconds. Twenty-four seconds. Twenty-five. He takes the helmet off.

At seven minutes Tucker realizes his coffee’s disappeared. “Where-”

“When I came in.” Desi’s sitting cross-legged on her desk opposite Donut. “I was getting you both refills, but we were out of coffee.”

“Oh.”

Desi takes a sip from her mug.

At eleven minutes thirty-seven seconds, Hot Stuff gets a request for video sharing from someone with the handle “Basically God”. He puts it up on the big screen where he’d been playing  _ Strife _ or  _ Contention _ or whatever his game’s called. God, Tucker feels like such a dad.

The video is a livestream from Carolina’s helmet cam. An overtired and frazzled Park is backing up, mumbling apologies. Cyan gauntlets come up to steady him but jerk away before they can actually touch him. Park looks up, brushes the hair that fell from its bun out of his face, sees who he’s run into, and visibly bids his soul good-bye. The video zooms in on his panicked expression.

Park’s frantic apologies fade into the background as Church begins narrating, “And here we have a stunning example of what we in the field like to call ‘Carolina Paralysis’. Watch closely as Private Yong-gi Park struggles with the conflicting impulses of ‘fight’, ‘flight’, and ‘grovel’.”

Carolina eventually does Park the mercy of cutting him off. “...Hi.”

Park goes from exaggerated alarm to exaggerated pleasantness in 0.5 seconds. “Heeey!” His smile looks painful. “C!” The smile drops briefly as he winces at the nickname. “What-” His voice cracks and he has to clear his throat. “What brings you here?”

“In a shocking turn of events,” Church drawls, “Park chose ‘grovel’. While uncommon in most of his peers, this particular subject has a predilection for the tactic.”

“Weapons?” Carolina says, managing to turn the straightforward answer into fifteen syllables deserving of a question mark.

“Cool! Cool.” Park inches forward, sticking as close to the wall as possible when it becomes clear he and Carolina are headed the same way. There is visible sweat on his forehead.

“Why,” Church snickers as Carolina fumbles for a response, “are  _ you _ here?”

“Checking…” Park’s eyes dart between Carolina and the Armory door at the end of the hall. “...stuff,” he finishes lamely.

“What an engaging conversation,” Church deadpans. “You know what, Carolina? This might be one for the history books.”

The camera jolts forward slightly. “You just got back from a mission,” Carolina says, with enough desperation that Tucker feels embarrassed on the other end of Armonia.

Park freezes mid-step. He stares at her, eyes wide.

“Oooooh, this is  _ advanced _ Carolina Paralysis.”

Several emotions war on Park’s face. Terror, pride, mortification, hope, despair. He grabs at ‘pride’ with everything he’s got, plastering on a smile that shows far too many teeth to be comfortable for either of them. It does nothing to distract from the horror in his eyes.

“Thanks! I was always the best at knowing how long you can cook a grenade before it explodes I only got blown up once and that wasn’t even a big deal ‘cause I already threw it, it just wasn’t far enough away yet and I had armor on anyway so I was only in the hospital for like three weeks. The helmet was busted though, that thing’s scrap. You’re not actually supposed to do that, but Felix always said it was safer than letting a Fed throw it back at you and now that I think about it he was probably just trying to get us to blow ourselves up. It’s banned in training, not that it matters in training since those are all duds that have the right weight so you can get your aim right except I think the Feds have fancy ones where they make a noise and blow smoke and you can re-use them later but I don’t know if the weight’s right since we haven’t had grenade drills since the move and the weight’s more important than the special effects. I still do it though, in the field, except when I’m in a city ‘cause then you can throw it so it bounces around a room and they can’t catch it and we mostly use stuns in the cities in case there’re civilians in the buildings ‘cause that happens sometimes, but not as much anymore, and because the point’s mostly to confuse people before you move or get people back from a barricade if you’re pinned. Did you know that stun grenades don’t damage their casing they just make a loud noise and a flash that’ll blind you for a few seconds if your visor can’t compensate in time but even if it can the blast can still make you dizzy by disrupting the fluid in the inner ear and it can set things on fire sometimes too which is weird because you don’t think of flashbangs as incendiary and technically they’re not since the whole point of those are to set things on fire and in flashbangs it’s a side effect.”

There’s a weighty pause while Park gasps for breath. “Y’know,” Tucker says slowly, “at first it was funny, but now it’s just kinda sad.”

Everyone in the room nods solemnly. “I’m making a note that Park’s gonna feel like shit for the rest of the month,” Corn Cob says.

Desi sets her mug down. “Make sure you put in that he can be reminded of this if we ever need him to feel ashamed.”

Oh my God.

“Guys, that’s super fucked up. You know that, right?” Tucker protests.

Donut beams. “You can never know too many ways to break a man!”

Oh wow, look at that livestream, so interesting and not at all painful.

Onscreen, Carolina is attempting to recover. “It’s always good to have a specialty!”

Park nods. Tucker has a strong suspicion that if this conversation goes on much longer, the kid’s face will match his hair. Which is saying a lot, since Sarge tried to claim him for Red Team based on hair color alone.

The camera bobs slightly. “Keep training!” Pause. “Bye!”

The feed loses track of Park as Carolina about-faces and power-walks back the way she came. The video cuts out as Church starts cackling.

Nobody in The Lair has the willpower to look away from the blank screen for a solid thirty seconds. Tucker breaks the silence.

“I do not miss high school.”

Donut shudders.

-

The next morning Tucker is exhausted and on edge. He’s like 80% sure that they stopped whatever was going down, but he’s supervising a big, integrated training session, and it’s like seven am, and if anything was going to go wrong it would be in the next three hours. Wash is droning on and on about grenade safety in the background, but Tucker has his attention split between Corda in the front, Donut’s squad in the back corner, and Aqua right in front of him.

Greaves and Miram seem well behaved enough with Bakshi present. Samaha isn’t back from the hospital yet and the space where he should be looms larger than the actual kid.

Donut’s squad is either paying real good attention or is real good at faking. The only giveaways are how Corn Cob scans the assembled soldiers at regular intervals and how Hot Stuff’s fingers keep twitching like he wants to be typing. Someone who he assumes is Stopwatch keeps staring at one of Caboose’s soldiers and looking away whenever he looks back. Only Desi matches Donut’s relaxed and interested posture.

_ Fay: Watch Park. _

_ Fay: We still don’t know what he did after Carolina left. _

_ Tkr: yeah obvs _

The kid in question is sitting right in front of Tucker, twitching every time Wash says “explosives”. Which, considering the lesson is about grenades, happens approximately every two seconds. Even Palomo seems annoyed.

_ Tkr: hey who the fck is this??? _

_ Fay: Le Fay _

_ Tkr: ???? _

_ Fay: Desi _

And when that didn’t get a response,

_ Fay: My code name is Le Fay. _

Desi hasn’t so much as glanced in his direction since she arrived. He’s like, 90% certain she answered a question about how long a fuse lasts while she was sending that last message. Speaking of, it looks like Wash is wrapping up.

“-cover  _ immediately _ after throwing. Not two seconds after throwing. Not ‘as soon as I see it explode’.  _ Immediately. _ ”

A hand goes up.

“Even if you really want to see pirates get blown up.”

The hand goes down.

Wash surveys the room like he’s mentally calculating the likelihood of the exercise ending in a trip to the hospital. Tucker, along with the rest of the Reds and Blues for that matter, is intimately familiar with that particular look. The odds must be acceptable because Wash calls the squad leaders to the front to unstack and distribute dummy grenades.

The training room they’re set up in is one of the larger ones, but it still isn’t big enough for everyone to be throwing grenades at once. Instead, they’re going in shifts. First up are Gold Team, Donut’s squad, and a couple Fed squads Tucker hasn’t worked with. Corda’s sitting out, along with Donut’s squad, Blue Team, Simmons’ two squads, and the three squads that make up Green Team.

Actually, ‘sitting out’ is a strong term. Mostly they’re chilling at the edge of the practice area. Miram, in particular, is causing Wash’s grey hair of the day.

“Private Miram! What part of ‘clear the floor’ do you not understand?”

“I am clear! Look, I’m off the floor!”

“ _ No, _ you’re  _ not. _ You’re two feet from the target. Frags have a kill radius of sixteen feet. Even if it’s practice, no one can throw a grenade until-”

Mathews snaps to attention. Park shoots to his feet. “Yes sir, throwing, sir!” Mathews shouts. Park makes a sound like a dying weasel in the back of his throat as the bomb sails towards the target. Tucker takes a moment to appreciate the surprisingly competent throw. The grenade skips across the floor, coming to a stop at the exact base of the dummy.

In the next moment, there’s a blinding flash and the loudest noise Tucker has ever heard.

The first thing Tucker sees when his vision clears is Greaves stomping his way, fumbling with her sidearm. 

“Hey!” he shouts, or thinks he does. He can’t hear anything over the ringing in his ears. She brings her pistol up, the muzzle bobbing between the remnants of team Aqua, Tucker, and the weapons rack behind them.

Nope. Tucker steps over Quinones, sitting cross-legged on the floor, and grabs Greave’s pistol, shoving it down and to the side. 

“GREAVES!” he roars. She jolts, and he yanks the gun from her hands. “Sit down!” She drops to the floor.  _ Now, _ she’ll follow orders. Figures.

Quinones scrambles around the two of them, Park and Palomo close behind. They stop dead as soon as they get a clear view of the training floor, and Tucker sees why.

The training dummy Mathews was aiming for is ablaze, and beside it are three figures in armor. The two kneeling are easily recognizable as Wash and Bakshi, but the third…

The third is in armor that used to be white. The entire left half is scorched black and melted. Wash has his hand up, talking into his radio as Bakshi sits the kid up and helps him get his helmet off.

Park shoves Quinones forward. He stumbles at first, glances back at Park who waves him on, and runs to help Wash and Bakshi with Miram. Greaves makes a noise of wordless indignation from the floor that Tucker elects to ignore. Instead, he puts his hand on Park’s shoulder and shoves him to the floor next to her. He goes without a fight.

“Park?”

“Yes, sir?” Park asks, scooting away from Greaves.

“You’re dead.”

“Yes, sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm alive! Turns out it's hard to edit without a stable internet connection. I'm already 2/3 done with the next chapter, so that one should be up soon. Sooner.
> 
> Anyway, come yell at me on tumblr at ivekilledmonsters


	5. Three Conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Park fucks up. Tucker makes a decision. Corn Cob makes a discovery.

Park almost wishes he’d taken the time to shed his armor before heading to the hospital. It wasn’t practical, but… 

The rain had picked up as Captain Tucker’s lecture wound down and there’s something suffocating about hearing the white noise and seeing the water splash up around his boots without being able to feel it on his skin.

The glowing red cross over the main entrance comes into view and Park shuts his eyes against a brighter, phantom light.  _ It wasn’t supposed to do that. _ The stale, filtered air of his life support system isn’t enough to drown out the memory of burning metal. Burning flesh. Park’s helmet skitters to a stop a foot from the glass doors of the hospital lobby.

He regrets throwing it before he even processes that it’s gone. The rain that hits his face is  _ fucking freezing. _ A drop, no, a  _ clump _ of what can only be described as  _ slush _ hits his nose and drenches his face. Oh God, it’s in his hair. Abort,  _ abort! _

He snatches up his helmet on his way, barreling through the doors, skidding to a stop, overbalancing on the suddenly soaking linoleum.

There’s a strangled yelp from across the lobby. Park looks up to see Quinones hurrying towards him, arms outstretched like he could catch him from all the way across the room.

“Hey, Kiwi.” Park shoves the helmet back on and regrets it immediately.  _ Sooo cooooold. _ “You didn’t see Burchfield without me, did you?”

Quinones stops in his tracks and flaps his hands. “No, but-” He pauses for a moment, bouncing on his toes. “-But there’s something you should know.”

Did-? “You could’ve texted me if Miram died, Kiwi!”

“He’s not dead!”

Park relaxes a fraction. “Then I’m sure it can wait.”

Quinones looks over his shoulder down the hall towards pediatrics. Probably pediatrics. Park hasn’t been in Armonia Medical longer than it takes to stitch up a bullet wound or visit a friend since his family fled the city eight (nine?) years ago. Does the spectrometer in the cath lab still have the green army guy taped to it? Did they ever fix the squeaky door on the fifth floor by the fire escape?

“Actually-”

A familiar figure emerges from the maybe-pediatrics hall. “Park!” Well, that solves the mystery of where Palomo went after Miram got carted off.

“What are you doing here, Palomo?”

Palomo comes to stand behind Quinones, crossing his arms and tilting his helmet the way he’s seen Tucker do when he’s too tired to yell at them. “Quick question,” he says. “What the fuck was that?”

Park spent an hour being yelled at for this mess by Tucker, he’s done. He’s not letting someone years younger than him give him shit for this, rank be damned. It’s not even his fault! They weren’t supposed to-

_ “-the ones who burned your town down? Who set up that ambush-” _

“Oh, I’ll tell you what the fuck.”

Not his fault, not his fault, not his fault. He repeats it like a mantra as he storms past Palomo and Quinones, skipping the main staircase in favor of the one by the ICU that leads straight to the private rooms where Burchfield’s staying.

At least, that’s the plan.

He gets as far as the ICU before he spots Dr. Grey leaving one of the glass rooms, stripping off latex gloves, and chatting animatedly with Nurse Markus. This is fine, he just has to backtrack before she-

She glances in his direction. Still not the end of the world, he can just-

She’s waving him over. No, nope, not in the mood. For the second time in as many hours, Park is grabbing Quinones and shoving him towards a crisis. 

Quinones squeaks.

“Distract her!”

“H-”

But Park’s already gone, Palomo at his heels, backtracking through the ICU to the kitchens and the freight elevator behind it the food service people use to bring meals to the patients on higher floors. The kitchen is empty this time of day, which is a stroke of luck Park think’s he’s owed at this point. The last thing he needs is someone tattling to-

“So are you going to tell me what’s going on, or-”

“Hold your horses, Palomo; I’ll get there.”

The back of Park’s neck itches under Palomo’s stare. Or maybe that’s the drying rain-slush. The point is, by the time Park throws open Burchfield’s door, he’s ready to crawl out of his own skin.

“Burchfield you fuck!”

Burchfield sets his datapad on his chest. “So how’d it go?”

“Oh, I’ll tell you how it went! Mathews threw the bomb that burned Miram  _ through his armor, _ Greaves  _ pulled a gun on me, _ and somehow Tucker figured out I had something to do with it, so we’re  _ both _ in deep shit!”

“Greaves is in trouble? That’s great!”

Burchfield’s lucky he’s so close to death because if he were any better Park would  _ strangle him. _

“That’s all you’ve got to say?  _ ‘Great?’ _ Miram’s a floor down with the entire left half of his body burned to shit and you say  _ ‘That’s great!?’” _

Burchfield rolls his eyes. “He’s a fed, Park.”

_ “The entire left half of his body!” _

“Fed, Park! You’ve never had a problem with blowing up feds before!”

“That-”

The third night into the temple mission, Miram had produced a pack of cards and challenged them all to poker. The other feds all watched from their tents as Miram laid down hand after hand of flushes, full houses, and a suspicious number of aces.

“That doesn’t-”

“Palomo.”

Palomo stops inching towards the door. “Yeah?”

“What’s Park known for?”

Palomo glances between the door and his teammates. “Is this a trick question?”

“Yes,” Park cuts in. “Don’t answer that.”

“Combat wise,” Burchfield continues, like Park hadn’t spoken. “What’s he known for combat wise?”

There’s a moment of silence while Palomo stares at Park. “Explosives,” he says, at length. “Park, did you-”

Park crosses his arms. “Stop changing the subject, Russel.”

Burchfield sounds more irritated than he has any right to be. “And that subject is?”

“How this is your fault!”

“ _ My _ fault? You made the flash bangs!”

“It  _ was _ you!” Palomo exclaims. “You switched the grenades!”

“Why do you care?” Burchfield asks. “You hate the feds as much as we do.”

Palomo doesn’t have an answer for that. He shifts his weight and the silence grows. “Captain’s pretty pissed.”

Burchfield snorts. “I give a shit.”

Says the guy who didn’t get  _ yelled at by said captain for an hour. _ “You’ll give lots of shits when I tell him it was your plan.”

_ “Oh shit,” _ Palomo whispers.

Burchfield fixes Park a look that could melt steel. “Get out.”

_ “Oooh shiiit.” _

“What are you-”

“I said get out! Or-” Burchfield’s eyes dart from Park to the door and back again. “Or I’ll call Dr. Duke.”

The silence that meets those words is as icy as the rain falling in sheets outside. Palomo fidgets with his arm guard, helmet tilted towards Park in an unspoken question.

“Come on, Palomo,” Park says. “We’re leaving.”

Palomo has the decency to wait until they’re in the hall to be a nosy asshole. “Sooo, why are you avoiding-”

“Eat a dick, Palomo.”

-

Tucker’s waiting in the conference room a good twenty minutes before Bakshi shows up. When he finally arrives with his helmet under his arm, he doesn’t look at Tucker, just takes a seat and stares vacantly at his soot-stained gloves. Every few minutes he puts his helmet on before returning it to its place on the table. Tucker figures he’s checking for updates. He wonders if he’s gotten any.

Tucker sure as hell hasn’t. The last message he got was from Wash a little over an hour ago.

_ Wash: 1056 Roseheart room 563, 0840 _

Wash comes in at 8:40 on the dot, shutting the door behind him with care incongruous with his rigid posture and measured steps. Tucker’s gut twists as he realizes he can’t tell if the face under the helmet is furious or has returned to the careful neutrality that Wash had worn like armor those first few days after Sidewinder.

“Captain Tucker, Corporal Bakshi.” Neutral, he decides. His voice is too even for anything else. “What. The fuck. Was that.”

Bakshi looks up from his hands for the first time since he sat down. “I’m sorry sir, I have no idea what’s gotten into her.” Wash doesn’t move, just looks at him, silent. Bakshi tugs at the tips of his gloves, not quite pulling them off. “I’ll talk to her. This won’t happen again.”

Tucker snorts. Wash’s quiet fury and Bakshi’s vacant eyes zero in on him, but he can’t bring himself to care. “Course it won’t. Because I fucking took care of it this time.”

Bakshi tugs on his glove too hard and pulls it off his hand. That’s right, motherfucker, be ashamed. This is at least half your fault, you negligent asshole.

Wash is less impressed. “Define ‘taken care of.’”

Tucker leans back in his seat and crosses his arms. “Greaves is in the armory polishing every .44mm round we have, and Park’s filling sandbags. With a slotted spoon.” He grins behind his visor. He’s especially proud of that one.

“That’s...innovative. But how do you know Park was even involved?”

Tucker stiffens. Fuck. Double fuck. Triple fuck! How did he forget _again,_ that _‘I was spying on people with Donut’_ _isn’t evidence?!_

“He, uh-”

_ CRACK! Thud- _

Oh thank fuck, it’s deus ex Carolina. The freelancer is saved from the door rebounding and smacking her in the face by it cracking down the middle and falling off its hinges. Office buildings were not built to withstand power armor, apparently.

“I know who switched the grenades.” He’s in love. He’d kiss her if she wouldn’t break his arm. “Private Park. He was in the armory last night. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but-” She cuts herself off, tilting her head the way she does when she’s listening to Church, and nods. “I want to train him.”

What.

“What?” Thanks, Bakshi. Couldn’t have said it better himself.

“Let me train him, and I guarantee he won’t pull anything like this again. He wouldn’t  _ dare. _ ”

Bakshi looks pale. “I don’t think-”

“No, fuck it,” Tucker interrupts. “I like this plan.”

Wash grimaces. “Tucker-”

“No!” Oh hey, he’s standing. When did that happen? “I’m sick of dealing with teenage bullshit!” Wash looks like he’s going to protest again, so Tucker turns his back to him to fully face Carolina. “He’s all yours.”

Carolina’s posture shifts from aggressive and looming to tall and self-satisfied. “Excellent.” She about-faces and marches out of the room. Run, Park. Run like you have a super soldier after you.

“Carolina!” Wash gives Tucker and Bakshi one last glance. “We are not done with this conversation.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What the fuck ever.”

Wash disappears down the hallway, and Bakshi gives Tucker an uneasy look. “You know you’re not getting that kid back in one piece.”

“Then he shouldn’t pull bullshit. Now, If you’ll excuse me, I have shit to do.” 

Donut’s wine isn’t gonna drink itself.

-

The hospital is the cleanest part of Armonia. For the most part, it functions exactly as it had before the city was converted into a fortress. The gift shop is empty, but the screens still call up the database of wards and offices and interactive maps. The plants in the lobby are still watered, the kitchens are staffed (by off-duty nurses and soldiers with crash courses in nutrition, but staffed nonetheless), and the elevators still run. Cosmetically, the only difference between Armonia Medical then and Armonia Medical now is how few people it contains.

It would be unsettling if Corn Cob had any memories of an Armonia  _ not _ defined by war.

She skirts past Quinones and Grey, deep in conversation about Sangheili and stormfronts, bypasses the elevator in favor of a stairwell lined with incomprehensible modern art paintings, double checks the room number Hot Stuff had forwarded to her HUD, and stops dead at the sight of one Private Greaves hovering in front of her destination.

What’s she- Corn Cob shakes her head. No, of course Greaves is visiting Miram. She’s his teammate. She probably came as soon as Tucker finished yelling at her and Park. Corn Cob is the outlier here.

“I can wait, if you want.”

Greaves jumps a foot in the air at the sound of her voice. Oops. Guess those stealth exercises with Gold Team are paying off.

“Peters,” Greaves says when she recovers. “And what  _ exactly _ are you doing here?”

Corn Cob takes a deep breath. Greaves has had a long morning, she reminds herself. Her friend was blown up just over a week after her  _ other _ friend was blown up. She’d gotten her ass kicked by Captain Tucker and yelled at for almost an hour. Anyone would be on edge under the circumstances.

“I’m visiting Simon.” True, in every sense. Desi was too busy dealing with the aftermath to come herself, and Corn Cob wasn’t about to say no when she asked her to check up on him. It’s incidental that she’s had a crush on him since he beat her at poker three years ago. Really.

Greaves snorts.

“I care about him too, Greaves.” True, and common ground at that.

Greaves does a full-body eye roll. “There’s a difference between caring about someone and caring about getting in their pants.”

Actually? Fuck her.

_ “You little-” _

_ Hospital rooms must have way better soundproofing than I thought _ is the only thought Corn Cob is able to process as the door swings open to reveal a comically stoic Andersmith who has  _ apparently _ been with Simon since he brought him to the hospital.

Greaves says nothing.

Neither does Corn Cob.

Andersmith closes the door behind him and walks past them, down the hall and out of sight.

“You don’t think-” Greaves says, staring down the empty hallway.

Corn Cob continues to say nothing.

“He did  _ not _ need to stay with Miram for an entire hour.”

Corn Cob still says nothing.

“That son of a bitch,” Greaves breathes. “With a  _ rebel.” _

Corn Cob says nothing. She does, however, side eye Greaves from the safety of her helmet. There’s more hurt than anger in her tone, Corn Cob notes with interest. No jealousy either. She can work with that.

“I believe I may have a solution.”

And just like that, the whole of Greaves’ wrath is refocused on Corn Cob. “What are you gonna do, tell on him? We’re  _ supposed _ to be getting along.”

“I know the policies, Greaves,” Corn Cob snaps. “Hard to miss the entire Rebel Army moving into the capital. Ground level is more complicated.”

Greaves stares at her, disbelief written in the tilt of her head and the shift of her shoulders. “God, you sound just like him. You’ve spent way too much time with that family.”

“Pot, kettle.” Corn Cob was like this  _ well _ before she started working with Desi, thank you very much.

“Whatever.” Greaves glances back at Simon’s closed door. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing. You just want to be waiting in the wings when this…  _ thing _ ,” she spits the word through clenched teeth, “with Andersmith crashes and burns.”

“That’s not why I’m offering.”

That’s totally why she’s offering.

“Bullshit.”

“It’s not!” Lie. “An inter-army relationship is a bad idea right now.” This is true. There isn’t even a treaty yet, just a ceasefire. It’s entirely possible they all go back to killing each other once the Hargrove thing gets taken care of. “A secret inter-army relationship is an even worse idea.” Also true. Relationships aren’t forbidden, so keeping one hidden only makes things more difficult. “And a secret relationship between a fed with ties to the old intelligence agency and one of the Reds and Blues’ Lieutenants is the worst idea.” True. That’s three of four. Manipulation is easiest when you tell more truths than lies. Locus and Felix taught them that much, at least.

Greaves wavers. Time to bring it home. “I don’t think you want to see him get hurt either.”

Corn Cob takes careful note of how Greaves gives in. She sighs first, looking back at the door. She squares her shoulders instead of slumping, and Corn Cob can imagine a valiant attempt at a neutral expression behind the visor.

“What do you have in mind?”

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think my friends at the table references have reached critical mass XD
> 
> I didn't abandon this overwraught teen drama, I've just been busy with midterms and Dead Men. I've already got part of the next chapter written, so it shouldn't take as long to update next time, but I make no promises. As always, thanks to my beta poolguy and you can yell at me on tumblr at ivekilledmonsters

**Author's Note:**

> I’m back on my bullshit baby!
> 
> So, this is basically an au of season 12 where the true warrior test and Santa aren’t a thing, so everybody’s fighting over random temples whos uses are a complete mystery until they can A) decipher the ancient Sangheili or B) turn it on. Also Pierce and Sharkface aren’t here because I forgot about them when I was outlining. Oops ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> EDIT: Just noticed I called Price Pierce so like if that gives you any insight as to how concerned I am with his character here


End file.
